


no is the saddest experience

by Flywoman



Series: one is the loneliest number [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FIFA World Cup 2014, M/M, Post-Match, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:43:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lionel Messi visits Cristiano Ronaldo after Portugal fail to make it out of the group stage at World Cup 2014. A sort of sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/438744">one is the loneliest number</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no is the saddest experience

It's over. He can hardly believe it. Nothing he'd done had been enough to rescue his team after their humiliation at the hands of Germany - not the perfect assist in the last fifteen seconds against the U.S., not the goal he'd gotten against Ghana that will make him Man of the Match. Too little, too late. Once again he will be leaving the World Cup early, heartsore and empty-handed.

Feeling numb and hollow, Cristiano Ronaldo goes through the motions of congratulating his African opponents, of consoling his exhausted teammates. There are no tears from him tonight despite his despondency. Although his eyes stay dry, everything passes by in a blur. How many 33-year-old strikers score in the World Cup? He knows that this might well have been his last big chance.

Back in his hotel room, he strips off his fresh shirt, already sticky with humidity, and takes another cool shower, closing his eyes as he lets the spray hit him full in the face. He doesn't get out until he's started shivering, and then he towels himself off as quickly as his tired muscles can manage and pulls on his pajamas.

He's sprawling barefoot on the bed, about to open a bottle of water, when he hears the soft scrape of fingernails at the front door.

Cris knows better, of course he does after nearly a decade of fame, but just now he's beyond caring, thinks that he might even enjoy giving hell to some poor schmuck for daring to invade his privacy, and so he doesn't bother peering through the peephole before unlatching and yanking open the door.

Somehow he isn't even a little bit surprised to see that Lionel Messi is standing in his hallway, right arm still raised.

Cris shivers again, feeling his skin crawl with a sudden sensation of _deja vu_.

The four years since the first time have aged Leo, almost a stranger now with his close-cropped hair, his incipient wrinkles, the ugly tattoo clasping the back of his bare calf. His t-shirt is plain but clean and actually fits him, clinging to the slight slopes of his pecs, the flat plane of his stomach, before it disappears beneath his shorts. But his maturity is even more evidenced by the confident way he plants his feet and by the steady gaze that he has trained on Cris, determination in his close-set brown eyes.

Cris opens his mouth to say, _Beat it, asshole_ or _Some nerve you've got, after the last time,_ or possibly even, _What the fucking fuck?_ but what actually comes out is "Oof!" as Leo takes advantage of his hesitation to dart inside the doorway and launch himself against Cris' body, crushing that cute cleft chin against his sternum. His arms lock around Cris' waist and squeeze so tightly that the unshed tears finally force their away out and over his cheeks, not because Leo's hurting him but because his emotional barriers have just been shattered. He's absolutely mortified to hear a strangled sob escape his lips.

Without looking, Leo lifts his leg and gently kicks the door closed. The arms encircling Cris' hips as he shakes are solid and surprisingly strong. He continues to cry helplessly, covering his face with one hand and resting the other arm across Leo's shoulders.

They stand like that for a long while, Leo gradually relaxing his death grip, allowing his hands to stroke the small of Cris' back.

And then, before Cris quite realizes what's happening, they've slipped down further, under the waistband of his white silk pajamas, and are cupping his glutes, pulling him forward against the warmth of Leo's stomach.

Cris squirms, feeling an answering warmth of his own, and tries to push Leo away, but the shorter man is as impossible to budge on his living room floor as he is on the football field. He's grinding their bodies together, gently but firmly, with a slow sweetness that makes Cris' breath catch and his balls ache.

He should end this right now, he should kick the little motherfucker out the door, but his tears are still wet on his cheeks, his chest feels loose and free for the first time in what seems like days, and Leo's nimble fingers are doing something absolutely amazing to his ass. He can't help letting out a low groan as the head of his hardening cock rubs against Leo's rucked t-shirt, and at that moment the other man looks up at him, and he knows he's lost.

He doesn't even protest as Leo lowers himself to his knees, pulling Cris' pajama pants and underwear down with him. He fixes his eyes on Cris' bobbing cock for a few seconds, the expression on his face unreadable, before he wraps one hand around it and closes his lips around the head, his other hand grabbing the back of Cris' thigh for balance. Cris gasps as Leo's tongue swirls and laps, his warm hand sliding up his length, his beaky nose huffing cool breaths against the sensitive skin at the root. He finds himself threading his fingers through Leo's fine brown hair and tugging gently, guiding his rhythm.

It's an embarrassingly short amount of time before he's shuddering between Leo's lips, the tension in his core reaching a crescendo and then, just as suddenly, draining away.

When his vision clears, Cris is down on the carpet leaning against Leo, who's wiping his glistening lips on the sleeve of his t-shirt. He blinks and scoots backward, fetching up against the side of the sofa, and Leo follows him and snuggles companionably against his side. Cris can see the telltale bulge at the crotch of the other man's shorts even in the low light, but Leo makes no move to request reciprocation. It's just as well since Cris is in no mood to exert himself; his limbs are heavy, his heart still hammering in his chest.

"You've been practicing since the last time," Cris observes at last with a quirk of his lips, partly because it's clear that Leo has, partly because his curiosity is piqued.

Leo doesn't answer, but the flush that floods up his pale neck to his ears gives the game away.

"Someone from Barcelona?" Cris asks, as nonchalantly as he can.

"No," Leo says, too quickly. Cris raises an eyebrow at him, and he blushes harder, obviously embarrassed to be caught out, and then amends, "At least... not anymore."

Now that _IS_ interesting, but Leo has clamped his lips together with the stubborn set to his jaw that Cris knows so well from his run-ups to free kicks, so he drops the subject for now. Perhaps he'll be able to pump one of his Spanish teammates with secondhand ties to Barcelona later. Or possibly Pipita.

"Why'd you stop by?" he asks instead, but Leo only shrugs. Cris wants to push it, wants to demand to know why Leo never returned his calls, and why it took him four fucking years to get around to this... whatever this was, after the first time, but he isn't a goddamned teenage girl, so he doesn't. Instead, he sighs and leans his head against the plush of the armrest and closes his eyes.

After a few seconds he feels the rough skin of Leo's fingertip gently stroking his still-damp cheek. _Fucking fantastic._

"Some people said you were faking it," Leo says suddenly, as if out of nowhere.

"Faking what?" Cris asks without opening his eyes. "If you mean what happened just now, don't think you deserve all the credit, but yes it was real."

Leo laughs, a short bark of surprise. "No," he says, "I meant at the awards. The Balón de Oro." As Cris straightens in indignation and opens his mouth to protest, Leo quickly brings his stubby finger to his lips to still them. "But I didn't believe that."

Cris turns to regard him for a few seconds; Leo's eyes are earnestly wide, and he's gnawing his lower lip now as if worried that he's overstepped. "How would you know," Cris says at last, but his words are weary, not biting.

When Leo speaks again, his voice is so low that Cris can barely make them out. "You think I don't know anything about crying?"

"I think," Cris says, keeping his tone as level as he can, "that you have no fucking idea how it feels to get something like that after wanting it so badly for so long."

Now Leo pulls away from him and looks down between his knees; Cris is dimly aware that the bulge has deflated. "I hope that soon I'll get to find out."

To his considerable surprise, Cris finds himself saying, "I hope you do too." As Leo cocks his head inquiringly, he adds, trying to pass it off as a joke, "Now that Portugal is out of the running, I mean."

Leo gives him a smile; it's small, but it reaches his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. "Obviously."

"It will be interesting if Argentina wins," Cris continues, thinking out loud, already looking ahead to this year's ceremonies. "Considering that we got _La D_ _écima_ and the _Copa del Rey_ while Barcelona didn't take home any titles. Getting Portugal to the semis probably would have clinched it."

"Is that why you played with this?" and Leo places his hand on Cris' traitorous knee and squeezes it so that the heat rises to his face and pools once again in his groin.

"Says the man who pukes on the pitch before practically every match," Cris counters without thinking, and Leo frowns and withdraws his hand.

"Not that often," he mumbles, his Argentinian accent suddenly even thicker than usual. "It's nothing. I've had a million tests." Abruptly he rocks forward onto his knees and pushes himself to his feet.

"Leaving already?" Cris asks, even though he knows the answer.

"It's getting late," Leo says, ending on an unfeigned yawn.

"Sure you don't want me to..." and Cris makes a suggestive little gesture with his hand that sets Leo to shaking his head and smiling.

"That's all right." And then, more mischievously than Cris would have expected, "I'd rather you owed me one."

"Okay," Cris agrees, gifting Leo with his most dazzling grin without getting up off the floor. "Call it a rain check. When the World Cup is over, maybe stop by Madeira for a while. You'd like it there."

"That depends," Leo answers honestly, "on how it ends for us." His hand is already on the doorknob, his shoulders hunched as if he's bracing himself for impact.

"But that's not a no," Cris presses him, and Leo pauses and turns his head, giving him a last slow, shy smile that twists something deep in his stomach.

"It's not a no," he agrees, and then he's gone.  


End file.
